20. Time to clear out the riffraff.
Sutton
I NEVER THINK ABOUT MY HANDS. That is, until Kelly is holding one. His big hand, calloused from years of manual labor, dwarfs mine; and I'm suddenly keenly aware of my hand. The way it feels, all the tiny pinpricks of sensation from his rough skin, the engulfing heat like a fire that builds slowly—I feel it all in a rush, the sensation climbing from the tips of my fingers, up my arm, circling my neck, and quickly heating my cheeks in a blush I'm desperate to hide.
Why does something as simple as this man holding my hand cause such an instant, ridiculous reaction?
With my head bowed to shield the evidence written on my face, the first thing I notice upon entering the house is the floor. The lightness of the whitewashed white oak livens the space, a sharp contrast to the way the old flooring ate up all the light.
"Wow," I whisper, resting my head against Kelly's shoulder. We're standing just inside the door, the whole lower level open before us. The transformation is breathtaking. "Kelly." His name is a gasp on my lips; and as our eyes meet, I'm mesmerized by the sparkling golden specks in his irises.
"Quite the change, yeah?"
I nod. "Is this the same house?"
He chuckles, the deep baritone rumbling in the open space. "Come," he says, tugging on my hand, but I hold back.
"Should I take off my shoes?"
His head dips to take in my choice of footwear and snorts. "Those aren't shoes, baby girl."
My battered flip-flops and I both take offense to his comment. "Excuse you, I chose comfort over fashion when I left the house. Besides, who am I trying to impress? It's just you."
When he fakes offense, I playfully shove him. "Whatever, you're just my brother's bestie, right?"
A look of hurt briefly shadows his face before he schools it, the expression so fleeting I would have missed it if I weren't an avid observer of all things Kelly Ledger. It's a cut to my gut, knowing I'm the cause of hurt feelings, and I don't like the way it feels. I have a strong urge to correct the statement, clarify that he's indeed more than my brother's best friend, but Kelly has moved away from me, let go of my hand, severed that blissful connection.
Now it's awkward, the quiet lingering in the expansive open space.
To break the tension, I say, "It'd be perfect for roller skating." Kicking off my flip-flops, I pretend to skate around him, his body stiff with tension. "Viv and I could break out our old talent show routine."
He scoffs, arms crossed tightly across his chest. "No roller skating in here. You'll scratch the floor." His posture loosens infinitesimally, the corner of his mouth kicking up in an almost-smile, and he snickers. "I remember that routine."
I imitate skating backwards before jumping up into a twirl, landing loudly on both feet, wobbling to catch my balance. I huff out a laugh at my lack of grace but decide it's worth it when I discover the leftover evidence on Kelly's face that he doesn't bother to hide. He's smiling at me, his earlier tension thawed.
"It's because we always wanted to practice at the end of cul-de-sac and you boys got mad because you wanted to play basketball."
"Sounds about right."
"As I recall, I biffed it and scraped my knees and palms of my hands pretty bad because I hit a pile of loose rocks. It serves me right because Vivi wanted to sweep it for that very reason, but I didn't want to take the time to do that. I just wanted to get to skating."
"Sounds like you. Stubborn, impatient, and impulsive."
I roll my eyes. "You say it like it's a list of my faults."
Shaking his head, Kelly assures me that they aren't faults. "Nah," he says, erasing the distance between us in a few long sweeps of his legs. "They're the things I like most about you. And the things that frustrate me the most about you."
Standing directly in front of me, our height difference on full display, he lifts my chin to meet his gaze. "Now if you're done fake skating, I'd like to show you what we actually came in here for."
He leads me to the kitchen with a warm hand on the small of my back, and I make sure to match his body's movements in an attempt to keep the connection for as long as possible. It proves to be a silly thought since Kelly hooks his arm around my body, securing his hand on my hip as he shows me the progress of the painted walls and half-finished cabinetry.
As we stand side by side, I lean my head against his shoulder and finally say the thing rattling around in my brain, the thing directly responsible for the churning in my gut. "You know you're more than just my brother's friend, right?"
He glances down at me, the corners of his eyes crinkling from the slow-growing smile. He beeps my nose, and when I squirm against his body, he wraps his arm tighter around my waist and pulls me back with a sigh.
"I know, baby girl," he says on another sigh, sounding a tad melancholy.
"Come on," I say, tugging on his arm and towing him through the room, snatching my flip-flops along the way.
Once we're back on the porch, I retrieve the items I deposited when I first arrived. "Refreshments?"
We retire on the porch swing, sweating beer bottles clutched in one hand and cookies in the other. The day has reached its warmest point, and the breeze wafting through the shaded porch feels nice.
"Our days like this are numbered," I declare, breaking the silence. Seeing the confusion on his face, I elaborate. "Soon enough it'll be freezing outside, and we'll be stuck indoors. It's weather like this—the lingering summer days—that feels like a timer has started. The countdown till winter."
"You don't like winter?"
"I wouldn't be a true Minnesotan if I didn't bitch about winter, would I?"
He huffs out a laugh, and we fall into silence again as he rocks the swing back and forth in a soothing rhythm. My eyelids grow heavy, and I rest my head once again on Kelly's broad shoulder. Moments later, I succumb to the warm heaviness and allow my eyes to fall shut.
I'm not sure how long we sit like this, but I'm halfway to dozing when his deep voice causes my lashes to flutter open.
"How'd it go with Jensen this morning?"
"Good," I answer sleepily, then force my head off his shoulder. Angling my body so I can see him better, I narrow my eyes at him. "You know I can take care of myself, right? I would have eventually gone to Jensen, talked to him about everything."
"Yeah, I know."
"You know?"
He nods.
"Then why butt in if you know?"
"Baby girl," he says in a hushed voice, the husky timbre a sexy whisper on the breeze. "Just because you can do something on your own, doesn't mean you have to. Just say thank you. Then move on."
"So you want me to thank you?"
"If you want." The smirk on his face irritates me, but mostly because it distracts me from being annoyed at him.
"Don't hold your breath."
"You're welcome, Sutton."
"You know it's annoying how you manage to make smug look so cute. I want to be mad at you but also kind of want to kiss you all over your stupid face."
His response is a single lift of his brow. A warning? An invitation? A dare?
I decide to ignore it altogether, instead pivoting the conversation. "J told me I can't take on my parents' shit. That I need to see my mom as a person, not this untouchable idol to be held on a pedestal."
"Sounds like it's advice he learned the hard way." When I look at him for further clarification, he adds, "Remember his reaction to finding out your dad cheated? He let it fester and creep into his daily life."
"Yeah, it was kind of like a punch to the gut to find out our parents' relationship was less than the fairytale I thought it was. Cheating is just so..."
When I fail to produce an adjective, Kelly suggests one. "Unforgiveable?"
"Apparently, not to them. I mean, they eventually forgave each other."
We sit in that knowledge for a few beats, the creak of the swing loud in the silence.
"Have you ever cheated?" I finally ask.
"Nah, I wouldn't do that." His answer is quick, decisive. "Even if it was just a casual thing," he elaborates, "I still wouldn't. No one needs to be disrespected like that."
It's in my study of him—the tense way he holds the beer bottle, the way he averts his eyes, the quickened pace of the swinging—that I discover something about him. "You were cheated on, though, right?"
When he tries to shrug it off like it isn't a big deal, I decide to coax it out of him with a little truth of my own. "I walked in on my boyfriend in college fucking my roommate. I went bat shit crazy and started throwing her shit out into the hallway. I was forced to live with my shitty roommate the rest of the year, but I pretty much crashed with friends most of the time instead. So, yeah, I know what it's like to be cheated on. No shame in admitting it sucks."
He quietly admits, "I'm pretty sure every serious relationship I've ever attempted either began or ended with cheating."
"Started?"
"I didn't realize I was the other man."
The confession throws me. I can't reconcile the man next to me as someone's extra. Not when he's been the leading man in my fantasies for as long as I can remember.
"Has that left you jaded and that's why you rarely date?"
He shrugs, taking a few minutes to think it over before answering. "Nah, I just don't feel like wasting my time. Haven't found someone worth spending all my time with yet."
"Yet you're spending all your time with me." I say it light-heartedly, feeling this strong urge to hoist him up.
He smirks. "Yeah, I guess you aren't half bad."
-
THE BREEZE FROM THE OPEN WINDOW RUFFLES the curtains, a gust of wind sucking the light fabric in only to release it seconds later on a breathy exhale. The whistling of the wind through the battered screen window is drowned by the Bluetooth speaker blaring Taylor Swift, and I dance around the piles on my bedroom floor while I try to make sense of the contents strewn about.
A particularly strong burst of wind rattles the closed door and sends a few loose pieces of paper from a pile nearest the window fluttering around before landing a few feet away. I toe the papers back to their designated pile without missing a beat in the lyrics.
"He's so tall and handsome as hell. He's so bad, but he does it so well. I can see the end as it begins."
As a storm brews out my window, I organize my mom's belongings, gradually making progress to where I can see the dingy beige carpet of my bedroom floor once again.
After coming home from Kelly's flip this afternoon, I was greeted at the door by Vivi who was lugging an overnight bag over her shoulder to meet some old college friends. It's rare that I'm home alone, especially on a Saturday night, but it feels right. Time to clear out the riffraff.
In the space between songs, where one fades before the next begins, a loud banging just outside my window startles me, and I jump, a loud scream slipping from my mouth. Clutching my chest above my beating heart, I stand still in the center of my room, listening, my body tense. When I hear another bang above the music, I reach for my phone on my dresser to press pause on the song.
It's silent for a count of three—as if my phone paused more than just the music. No howling wind, no buzzing cicadas, no ominous banging. Just quiet. The hairs on my arms stick straight up, and I absently rub a hand over them.
Then, all at once, the sounds unmute with a bang of thunder and raindrops pelting heavy on the roof.
Just as I recover from the adrenaline surge, my heart reluctantly returning to its regular rhythm, I hear the noise again. A thud followed by a dull pattering sound. I strain to listen over the thunderstorm that rages outside, and I walk to the open window, peering out into the dark night.
A streak of lightning lights the outside for a fleeting moment, long enough to throw a spotlight on long shadows outside my window. I jump back on a muffled screech, covering my mouth to mask the sound.
Falling to my knees, I crawl back to the window, peering over the ledge to investigate. Surely, my eyes were playing tricks on me and there's an excuse for the shadows. I'm suddenly distinctly aware of how alone I am in my house.
The window looks out to the side yard that separates our house from the neighbor's. Their house is lit up from top to bottom, the dim light through their windows subtly illuminating the scene outside.
My eyes frantically search for clues as my ears are tuned in for any misplaced sounds. The same thud and pattering noises have me hissing in a breath, and another streak of lightning shows the same long shadows.
I fall to the ground, army crawling to my phone I carelessly discarded on the floor. Without thought, I call the first person that pops into my head.
"Kelly," I whisper-shout into the phone once he answers.
"What's wrong, baby girl?" I can hear the concern in his voice, and it only acts as an accelerant to my fear.
"I think there's someone outside my house," I whisper in a shaky voice. "I'm scared."
"Shit," he curses. I hear shuffling and banging in the background, and then his comforting, assertive voice. "Lock yourself inside. I'll be right there."
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